


Not a Good Book.

by Kali Cephirot (10AlliraDream84)



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Gen, Meta, POV Second Person, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-01
Updated: 2010-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/10AlliraDream84/pseuds/Kali%20Cephirot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You'll have to understand this is not my story. I might know it, I might love it, I might be able to tell it, but in the end, this is not my story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Good Book.

  
**Not a Good Book.**   
  
_  
“Your life story would not make a good book. Don't even try.”  
Fran Lebowitz   
_

You'll have to understand this is not my story: I was always told one shouldn't appropriate stories. That would be like killing the people who were involved in it. Even if you never knew them, even if they were long dead, you should respect a story. Names, beginnings and endings and, if you don't, you should at least call it a different thing. Own the tale you're creating from another tale. After all, what is storytelling if not a perpetual retelling of stories with new names, new characters, new places? It just might be that there is no new stories, but, storytellers, should always find a way for the story to become new. I am not a storyteller and, as such, I must respect the story and start it by saying how it's not mine. I might know it, I might understand it, I might care for it, but in the end, it isn't mine. A tape recorder would never be able to say 'this is my story', after all.

Ah, I know those eyes. You didn't come here for a story, isn't it? That's alright, I've gotten that a lot. Many people come here wanting to know about granduncle but few are patient enough th listen. That's why he never allowed his biography to be written before, even though, in his last few years, many people came to him for it. And thus, if they didn't care to listen, there was no way they would learn the truth.

Now you're paying attention, aren't you. No no, no need to apologize. My grandmother, she always said that somehow it seemed as if I had inherited granduncle's sense of humor. I always got so confused, when I was little, when she would sigh and say how sorry she was for that, and that she would pray that one day I would meet someone as fool as a duck to love me even with my grumpiness. Then granduncle would scoff at grandmother and say that if even ravens managed to find gold, then I would be alright. Back then, since I didn't know the whole story, I used to get confused and offended. Me! A duck or a raven! But that was just the way granduncle and grandmother had of relating to each other. They fought everyday from sunrise to sunset and sometimes more. It was a special relationship, the one grandmother and granduncle had. Lover? God forbid! No, no. Friends, I would think, for all that they both would have denied it if I had said so out loud. They both loved my grandfather and then he was gone and--

Ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself. You'll have to excuse me: granduncle always said that I had more of a storyteller than I had of ballerina and in the end, I decided not to be either of those since I am just like my grandfather (this, they both tended to agree with a fond sigh), very stubborn. I always felt a soft sense of proud at that, warm and a little tight in my chest: I never knew my grandfather. He died when my father was still very young, before he even started dancing himself. But from the stories I've known, I have always taken that as a compliment. In the end I decided to follow herr Kortig's way and became an editor. This was a selfish move, perhaps: I did it because I always wanted to be the first one to read granduncle's stories. If I couldn't spin a tale, then perhaps I would be able to help make it perfect.

But I was saying: you'll have to understand that the story is not my own and, furthermore, I only listened to it once. At least from beginning to end. As I was growing up, every now and then grandmother would tell me these little stories, and my parents would always read me the stories granduncle wrote, and even granduncle would read me stories from someone else, proper stories, stories with a beginning and an end. My childhood was pastel-colored with fairytales of all kinds. The Grimm Brothers and Christian Andersen were my best friends. One day I would be Snow White and the next day I'd be the Little Duckling. If my mother is to be believed, I learned to read before I learned to walk, and I knew how to write 'mama' before I would say it.

I digress again and, like I said at the beginning, this is not my story. Like yourself, I was mostly someone who knew of it later, after grandmother was gone and granduncle was sitting with his duck on his lap, looking... brittle. Did you ever meet my granduncle, I wonder? Not just pictures, because those are deceiving: in those granduncle does seem fragile and... old. Older than he ever was. In my memories he was always told and thin and proud, like the Quixote sans his madness. He was never deluded. He always knew who he was, what he wanted, what he dreamed, who he missed. I think he might have seemed frightful, to people who didn't know him. I see some of his pictures when he was dancing his villain roles and I tell to myself 'this is why people feared him' and yet, while I understand it, in my memories he will always be the man who would thread a needle and help me fix my dolls, who spent countless afternoons helping me practice until I decided to quit ballet. Granduncle only ever started looking old by the end. And that is when he told me the story.

Because it was a story. I'm not sure if I can stress this enough. If this was a song, here I'd belt out a high note, if it was a play here would be were Juliet finds out that her cousin is dead by her loved one, if it was a ballet here would be where the danseuse jumps up high, the moment where she is almost flying and the whole audience is waiting with bated breath. The story is that moment, and it was the life of my granduncle and yes, my grandmother and grandfather and a fourth one.

There was a 'once upon a time' and there was a princess (beautiful and perfect with a gentle touch and a soft smile) and a prince (handsome and pure, the champion of everything that was small and lost and weak) and a good fairy (who was wise and kind and who only saw the good in others and who believed in second chances) and a loyal knight (who was brave and strong and who loved too much), and at times the princess was a witch (terrible and childish and cruel) and the prince was a beast (who devoured others without a care) and the fairy was a fool (who made mistakes and trusted others too easily) and the knight was a coward (who cared more about his honor than he cared about his liege).

You already know that story, of course. It's one of the favorites, even though my granduncle only wrote the last part. I think grandfather never forgave herr Kortig for publishing that story. You'd be surprised by how much grandmother disliked it as well. Even the duck did! But it is the story that made people know about granduncle as a writer, and after he stopped dancing, when the rest of his stories came, suddenly everyone knew him. Yes, that is something that granduncle could have never forgiven. He was very taciturn. You can see it here, in his house. He cared for his books and for his students, for the pond of course where he liked to spend most of the time. But he never cared about fame, or people fawning around him which was, I think, another possible reason why he rejected so many people who wanted his biography.

But the real reason? Of course I know it! Would we be having this conversation if I didn't?

The real reason is, simply, that granduncle had already told his life before, and people were simply too afraid to believe him. Perhaps it's easier for me to believe him because I knew the people involved. I know that I look like grandfather, for all that the few pictures that remain of him are sepia-toned. I remember grandmother's kindness and how stern she could be with her students at the academy. I remember the duck who was always with my granduncle and how it took me years to realize that there was no way for a duck - a simple, domestic white duck, clumsy and loud and somehow entirely too human to be simply a duck - to be alive for over sixty years. She died the same day granduncle did. She was on his lap, the way she always was when he was sitting down, both of them sitting by the pond. It was my younger sister who called me to inform me that they both died in their sleep.

It wasn't a very notable death. If it was written, I'd cross the whole paragraph with my biggest, meanest red marker. The knight and the fairy, just falling asleep and never waking up! No, that is too anticlimactic. If I was editing the story, I would say, make it so that one of them died before the other. There was a separation. And one of them still lived, for a while. Probably the knight. It's usually the knight who ends up waiting, wouldn't it? And then, old and brittle and bitter, he dies and when he opens his eyes, he is young again. The lake is shimmering like silver - written in such way that wasn't too much of a cliché, of course - and there, on her toes, the fairy. She would say how she has been waiting and together they would dance a pas de deux as they faded away into eternity.

Yes, a bit corny, perhaps but, like I said, I'm not a writer. The point would be that their actual death wouldn't sell. Even the funeral was very private and small: only the family attended and granduncle's death merely merited a small mention at the local newspaper and mostly because they had called him eccentric: he had requested in his will to be buried near the pond, with his duck. What an old fool, being so sentimental that he had wanted to be buried with his pet.

The biography of granduncle would be terribly, dreadfully boring. His life, the way he told it, wasn't very interesting. It was a happy life. Happy lives don't make for best sellers. He wasn't involved with the wars. He scorned fighting. He liked children and he liked puppets and he danced until he couldn't do it anymore. He always wrote, but he was always careful to finish his stories. He would stay days and nights writing if he had to, but granduncle never abandoned a story. He even met up his deadlines! His biography, the one people would believe, was never interesting. The real lives of the people in my family weren't interesting.

Now, granduncle's story, grandfather and grandmother's story? That has already been written and sold and retold a number of times and it will remain even when people forget granduncle's names. There'll be books and maybe even movies, because that's the way these things go, with new ways to tell stories forever and over. There will be the day, when I'm old and brittle myself, that my grandchildren will think their grandmother has gone mad and they will never believe that they come from a fairytale. Who would blame them from doubting the tale of an old, crazy fool?

But that is the story, the story I was told, the story I partly witnessed towards the end. It isn't my story, for all that I've laughed with it and cried with it. And now you know it, and it's your choice to believe it or not, the same way that, once upon a time, it was my choice.


End file.
